


Drowning on Dry Land

by jesuisamore



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:38:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9084835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisamore/pseuds/jesuisamore
Summary: What do you do when you can’t stop thinking about someone you know you need to love enough to let go of? Some holiday fluffiness, but it’s pretty damn angsty, too.





	1. Chapter 1

  
Rebecca knows it’s not a good idea, but she does it anyway. She presses “send” before she can think enough to stop herself, and in reality, she does think it through, a lot, but she presses the button anyway.

The email is simple. It’s frivolous, really. In truth, if she’s being honest (and let’s face it, that is really hard for her), she has been thinking about Greg. Often. Enough that it’s a little bit distracting. This all started with a dream she had a few weeks ago, the one where she woke up drenched in sweat, his name on her lips, the phantom presence of his body still indelibly pressed against her skin. That dream.

The email though -- well, it has nothing to do with any of that. It is mostly rambling. She talks about the weather, asks how things are in Atlanta, about the weather, asks how school is going, if he is taking business ethics or accounting or both, and then, finally, if he is doing okay. That is the last line, “are you doing okay?” nestled in between some tips for saving money with a discount card and the value of renting textbooks.

“They didn’t have that option for me when I was in school,” she’d written. “Rent the things you don’t think you’ll need.”

Greg doesn’t write back. Her email box fills instead with the usual sort of Tuesday morning correspondence: promotions, briefs on upcoming cases, some spam, a few funny intra-office exchanges. There’s news about changes to the recycling pick up, an update to an Evite for Whi-Jo and Darryl’s first party together as a couple, a coupon for 40% off at the West Covina Outlet Mall.

Later that night, she gets to thinking: Sometimes you didn’t know what books you want to keep until LONG after school. I mean, if she thinks about it, now, she wishes she’d just kept all of her books.

She pulls out her laptop and starts to type.

“Re: Earlier Email--” The subject line reads. She thinks the topic at hand may warrant a text, but that seems to intimate, too familiar. After all, she didn’t want to get too involved in Greg’s new life. “I think it might be smart to buy, not rent, your books. Sometimes, you don’t realize the value in keeping something around until long after --" She types and pauses. 

Her mind flashes to the night before and her dream. It's become a recurring thing, the dream. Greg’s mouth on her breast, her body hot against his. Sure, sex with Josh had been hot, but Greg had known all the things she wanted, all those secret things she wanted to say and do, all the desires that she had never had courage enough to voice . . .

“What I guess I mean is, there were classes I took that I’d never realized how much I missed having that textbook until much later, much, much later . . .”

It seemed silly, now. I mean, what use would a 10-year-old law textbook mean to her? What help would a book on ethics or Plato’s _Timaeus_ have on an almost 30-year-old Rebecca Bunch?

“Anyway, what I’m saying is, maybe renting isn’t such a good idea. I mean, you think you save some money, but in the long run, isn’t it a better idea to just make an investment in your future knowledge?”

She hits send before she has a chance to over-analyse the contents. After all, she is just trying to be helpful: she's trying to give some good advice based on the things she already knew.

Greg doesn’t reply to that email, either. Rebecca realizes how old fashioned emails are, really. She starts thinking there is a good chance Greg may not even be checking his new Emory email, he may be ignoring emails from Rebecca.Bunch@whitefeather-law.com. And could she blame him? Could she blame him for wanting a clean and fresh start from the girl -- the woman -- who had single-handedly tried to destroy him at every turn?

And yet, if Rebecca is completely honest-- with herself and everyone else-- which was hard, impossibly hard -- he is the only man who had ever loved her -- really loved her -- her entire life.

Warts and all.

*

That night, she has a new dream.

It’s not some romantic fantasy, but it’s fantasy all the same. Rebecca is alone, waiting for something or someone, she’s not sure what. It seems like a train depot: there are rows of wooden benches, and tracks, and a single clock on a wall, but it doesn’t seem like a train depot at all. It seems like this indeterminate, undefined place where anything and everything could happen.

While she's waiting, she thinks about how it’s been a long time since she thought about Josh.

That’s not entirely true: she thinks about Josh, but not in the same way she used to. She thinks about Greg, not in the way she thought about Josh, but in a way that can consume her if she lets it. Even though she told herself she was going to let him go, she was going to live her life, she was going to move on -- she still thinks about him, a lot. He's in the little things: not memories, but things she wants to share with him, stories she wishes she could tell him, jokes she wishes she could laugh about with him. She wonders why she didn’t see it more clearly, even when she knew she was starting to like him. She wonders why it took this long, took so long that it became too late and then she realizes that is probably just the way it’s going to be with her. If she’s being perfectly honest, she’s not sure she deserves love.

To be loved, that is. Loving-- well, that part she’s pretty sure she’s got down pat.

She’s in the train station, or whatever it is: a place of waiting, and she feels like she’s waiting on Greg.

She wakes up and realizes she is going to be waiting forever probably and that it's all her fault.

*

The next morning, there’s a text message waiting on her phone. “Stop it with the lifehacks. I can handle reality without your helpful **advice** " the message reads. Rebecca recoils, her face skewing into a scowl.

“I’m just trying to help,” she fires back, her fingers responding before her brain can process the response.

After a few minutes of staring, the screen remains blank. Impatient, Rebecca stalks to the shower and readies herself for the day. Who cares what Greg thinks . . . Let him ignore her good-- no, _great,_ advice.

“Your help is poisonous,” is the response that awaits her when she emerges, dressed and ready to walk out the door.

She doesn’t know if she should be glad they are talking or cry.

*

The day that follows is brutal and long. She finishes it with a few gin and tonics at Home Base, feeling a bit bereft that Greg isn’t there to serve them, instead of being served by Heather. Heather is a good bartender and friend but lacks the self-deprecating and witty sarcasm that Rebecca could use right now. Instead of waiting on her neighbor to finish her shift, she calls an Uber, feeling tipsy. On the ride home, she texts Greg before she can stop herself, before she can think about it being a bad idea.

“I think about you.”

It disappears into the ether, into cyberspace, into nothingness. Bouncing off a satellite and traveling hundreds of miles, hurtling toward a man who clearly wants nothing to do with her.

The problem is, she never thinks. She doesn’t think about consequences, or outcomes, or what will happen when she says “yes” or presses “send” or says “you’re not my second choice.”

Her phone buzzes. “Stop.” Greg’s response stings.

“I can’t.” She’s honest. If anything, with Greg, she’s always fucking honest. A whole lot of good that seems to do her. She works so hard on honesty with everyone else, but with him, she’s a dark hole of true confessions.

“We’re a million miles away, and now you can’t stop thinking about me? Convenient, Bunch.” She can almost hear the words, the trademark Serrano sarcasm, his biting humor. She picks up her phone to fire back a witty repartee and pauses.

How does she respond? Technically, he is right. He’s on the other side of the country and now is when she can’t stop thinking about him. Why? It took his leaving -- albeit with a confession of love (even if it couched in a fucked up declaration of how he couldn’t be with her) to make her see all the reasons it was impossible. Wrong. Stupid. Why is she so stupid?

“I don’t make a lot of good choices.” She writes back, “but to be fair-- I can’t control how I feel-- or who I think about.”

After staring at her phone for ten minutes, there’s no response. Feeling herself go mad, she stops looking, stows it in her purse and is relieved when the driver pulls her into the drive. Once inside, she draws a bath, pours a glass of wine (why not?) and undresses, kicking off her jeans, wriggling out of the light sweater, unhooking her bra. Her eyes widen when she grabs her phone and she reads the words on the screen, sinking into the tub with a mixture of elation and dread.

“I’ve never been able to control anything when it comes to you, Rebecca. You know that. Don’t toy with me. I left for a clean start. Why are you doing this right now?”

Before she can stop herself, she presses Facetime.

*

It’s well after midnight in Atlanta and Rebecca is aware that Greg is probably tired and unamused by her late night and slightly drunken texts. If she weren't tipsy she’d better censor herself. But tonight, she doesn’t care. There’s something she needs to say-- and she’s going to, right here, right now, in this bathtub.

He answers on the second ring. When his face comes into view, she feels her heart bottom out. It feels like she can’t breathe a little when she sees him -- it feels like forever even though it’s not been that long, but it still feels like a lifetime. His eyes -- dark, heavy-- meet hers and soften for the briefest of instances before he directs them down to where the tops of her breasts meet water.

“Rebecca? ---" he asks, his voice straining, “What are you doing right now?”

“Bathing. Well, more like sitting in water,” She replies quickly. “Listen, I need to tell you-- “

“Why are you calling me,” he works out the word through gritted teeth, “from the bathtub, at midnight -- “

“Greg--, please.” Her voice lilts up, a petulant note of begging entering her tone.

“Naked,” this is a pained whisper, “So, so naked . . ." She sees the mixed emotions playing across his features on the tiny screen of her phone. It fuels her response, making her sit up a little more, the water sloshing ever so slightly . . .

“Greg, I need you to know something.”

“No, Rebecca. I need you to know something. I can’t do this with you. Especially not now. I have a new life. A new life, do you hear me. One where I am making good, healthy choices. Living clean, doing good things," His tone modulates from strained to angry, his expression pairing with the words. She knows she has to intersect, has to stop him and get out what it is that she has to say before he won't let her say anything at all.

“Greg, I’m happy for you, I want you to know that I am legitimately, completely, 100 % glad that you doing so well." She needs him to know how happy she is that he is doing well, that he is thriving, that he is making these good choices. But she also needs him to know that she is absolutely miserable without him . . .

“Then you can’t call me from your bathtub. Naked. Late at night. With that voice. And your face. And your . . .”

“And my what?” she asks, biting her lip.

“That.” He says, sounding exasperated.

“What?”

“You know what, Rebecca.” Greg is angry, she can tell. She’s not sure if it’s the gin or the wine or the late night, or everything that is wrong with her, but she realizes at that moment that she probably should get whatever it is that Greg is so frustrated about. “I have to go,” His words sting.

“Wait,” there’s a note that is pleading in her voice and it gives him pause. “I need you to know that I feel things - - -”

“It doesn’t matter what or how you feel,” Greg responds his voice resigned. “That ship has sailed.”

Greg disappears from the screen before she can say anything else.

*

The next morning, Rebecca writes and doesn't send at least a dozen emails -- everything from tips on how to save money dining on campus to Atlanta’s cultural tourism. The last one she writes is simple, mostly because she's written it or said it a million times already.

“I'm sorry,” she stares at the words on the screen in perfect, crisp Helvetica from Rebecca Bunch, Esquire.

“I won't bother you anymore,” she adds, then presses send before she can erase it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg, Rebecca, and Airports have a bad track record.

*

A few weeks before Thanksgiving Rebecca decides to go home to see her mother. There's not a lot of reasons to stay in West Covina, not this year, not after everything. And besides, it's been awhile since she's been back home to Scarsdale. She books the first and cheapest flight, not paying attention to the details.

It's been a long time since she has felt the full weight of her depression, and she knows that part of the heaviness comes from realizing -- and owning up to -- her actions. She’s been to enough therapy to know that, and the good hard look in the mirror leaves her feeling sad and lonely but oddly inspired.

She sends her mom her itinerary and a few minutes later the phone rings, her mother’s nasally voice snapping at the end of the line. “A six-hour layover, Rebecca? What are you, a pauper?! In Atlanta, no less, the God forsaken south. I guess the only thing worse would be Nashville, but . . .”

Rebecca stops listening, realizing what she has done, subconsciously for once, no scheming, no plotting. A six-hour layover in Atlanta-- Atlanta, where Greg--

NO.

She stops herself before she spirals out of control and into a song her and Greg and Airports. It's not a good thing. It's not a good song. This isn't healthy.

She forces her concentration back to her mother and ends the call abruptly. Hanging up, she stares at the screen of her computer morosely. This is dysfunctional. These are obsessive thoughts.

Greg.

For a moment, just a moment, she allows herself the fantasy. She leaves the airport, goes to his new apartment, surprising him. He can't stop his smile, that smile that is always so irrepressible and cute, the one between a smirk and a full on grin. And she would hug him and ask him how he was doing, taking in the feel of him, that smell he had: bergamot and patchouli and something uniquely, undeniably Greg.

“Rebecca. Hello? Rebecca??” Paula stares down at her, puzzling over her friend’s dreamy gaze.

“Donuts.” Rebecca stutters. “I'm thinking about donuts.”

*

She doesn't tell him about her trip, and he never responds to the email where she told him she would be leaving him alone, permanently. She reasons that the odds of their seeing each other are one in a million, maybe even higher -- one in a million billion, even. The day she leaves she dresses robotically, boards the plane, and reads a book about caring less and putting herself first. She listens to a preset playlist that is not at all romantic, and every time her mind starts to drift to thoughts of Greg, she makes herself stop.

_Stop it, Rebecca_ , she intones softly to herself.

The Atlanta airport is a blur of activity, of voice-over directions about flight schedule changes and delays: a snowstorm hit the east coast, flights were being canceled left and right. “Just my luck,” Rebecca mutters under her breath, grabbing a coffee at the nearest Starbucks before sitting down at a bank of chairs. Her flight at the moment was delayed -- adding a few more hours to her six-hour layover. She doesn’t care. For some reason, she just feels numb.

She stares out at the sea of people busy with their own lives, of dyads and triads in little cute huddles, or businessmen looking important and yet somehow miserable in suits, and she thinks about how lonely it all must be for the people who didn't have anyone. She wonders if Greg has anyone, right now, or at least for Thanksgiving, if he --

“Rebecca?”

Funny, she’s gotten so far in her delusions that she has become capable of imaging Greg’s voice. That upturned lilt, that incredulous tone, it’s spot on, it’s perfectly perfect Greg. “Rebecca Bunch?” The voice repeats, this time a bit angrily, and she turns around to look up into the face of Greg Serrano, who does not look particularly pleased to see her.

“Oh, hi Greg.” She says, feigning a weak smile.

*

_“Oh, hi Greg.”_ He mimics, biting out the words. “What the hell are you doing here? Are you actually stalking me?”

For some reason, it’s too much. She’s tried respecting his wishes, she's kept her distance, she’s got a million or so draft emails and texts she’s not sent, she’s done everything to respect him, and here he is, accusing her.

And yet, she knows it’s fair.

She looks up at him, feeling small. “Of course not. I’m going home to see my mother for Thanksgiving. I had a layover, but my flight is delayed even more --”

At that, an announcer declares the flight from Atlanta to Laguardia-- her flight-- is officially canceled. Snowstorm Delores is a bitch. Rebecca feels laughter bubble up in her chest, the laughter of hysteria, of being in a ridiculous, one in a million - billion situation. Greg looks incredulous. “I don’t believe you.” His face is skewed in a pinched, angry smirk. Rebecca puts her cup down, stands, and reaches out a hand to touch his arm -- he jerks away.

“Rebecca -- “ A warning note enters his voice.

“Greg, I’m telling the truth. If I were stalking you, wouldn’t I be at your house or something? Or, I don’t know, trolling the airport for you? Maybe you’re stalking me! What are you doing here, anyway?” Anger flushes her cheeks at his open, outright rejection. For once, there’s no lies, no ulterior motive, nothing but good intentions. Can’t he see that? Can’t he see that she is trying to be good?

“Right. Sure you are.” He shrugs his shoulders. “You know what? I don’t care.” He turns away from her and looks over his shoulder, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

The tears start before she can stop them, a great sob escapes her mouth, loud enough that a mother with three kids clutches her brood tightly to her and looks at her sympathetically. A businessman picks up his briefcase and moves away from her radius of sorrow as if it's something contagious. At hearing her eruption of grief, Greg pauses, the tension evident in his body before turning slowly. His expression is first angry, skeptical, ready to fight, and then he sees her -- sees the moisture running down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking from the weight of her emotion, and in two steps he is at her side, his arms around her, pulling her close. “Rebecca, Rebecca, oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t understand,” she can’t make words: the fact that he is holding her makes her cry harder, and the space around them widens as people sidestep this messy emotional display. His hands go to her hair, down her back, he makes shushing noises: it’s all automatic.

“What don’t I understand?” He pulls back slightly to look down at her tear-streaked face, her red-rimmed eyes. She looks up at him: everything hurts in the looking. She wants to tell him all of it: she wants to tell him how much she loves him, how much she misses him, how much him not being there breaks her, how she’s never really loved anyone before, not really, and then there was him. That he was every love song in her heart that she wanted to sing, and she knew she couldn’t. Not anymore, not ever.

“Anything. Everything.” She says, licking her lips. His eyes dart down to follow her action, she watches as they darken a shade and her stomach flips. His fingers tighten on her arms before he lets her go suddenly.

“I have to catch a plane,” he says, his voice wobbly. She can’t breathe right; everything feels tight. They are looking at each other like they are drowning a little on dry land.

“Okay.” She whispers sadly.

*  
Rebecca takes the next flight back home, which happens some 16 hours later. She lands, back sore, jet lagged, sleep deprived and without any insight from dream ghosts. In fact, the entire experience had left her feeling even number than before. Greg’s rejection, the winter storm’s shut down of any hope of a trip home, her battered heart --- it all left Rebecca in a strange state of nothingness.

After retrieving her car and the long drive home, she watched the dog show and was surprised by a knock on the door at 11 on Thanksgiving night. Heather was spending the holiday with parents; Valencia planned the same-- she had no idea who would be visiting at such a late hour.

In her wildest dreams, she never expects to see Greg Serrano with a bag of tacos and a sheepish expression on her doorstep. She lets him in, saying nothing. She's wearing mismatched pj’s, her hair disheveled, makeup smudged. She's suddenly glad she’d not cracked open that bottle of wine.

“I figured you would come home. I mean, back here. I mean-- all the flights were canceled, and I didn't want you to be alone on Thanksgiving . . .” Greg is rambling. Rebecca stares at him, taking in his black tee shirt and flannel, his unkempt hair, the stubble on his chin. Her mind flashes to the dream she keeps having of him, a slow replay of every dirty thing they did when they were fucking, and she finds her eyes getting unfocused a little . . .

“Rebecca? Say something. Are you okay?”

“I'm okay. Just tired. Tired and . . . Hungry.” That's not entirely a lie, she reasons. That's honest, in a way. “Have a seat.” She gestures to the couch, and he looks relieved.

She wants to straddle him but sits beside him, careful not to touch him, afraid of what might happen if she does. “Thank you, " he mumbles and she nods.

Stop thinking these thoughts, Rebecca. She tells herself, knowing it's the mixture of sleep deprivation and mental exhaustion that is making her less able to control her ridiculous desire.

“I shouldn't have left you like that at the airport.” Greg says softly. He sits the tacos down and reaches for her hand, and as soon as he does there it is -- that uncontrollable, undeniable chemistry. They look at each other, quickly, afraid to look too long. At least she is. She doesn't trust herself.

“No, no it's okay. I’m not your problem.” He hasn't let go of her hand and it feels good. He smells good. She is too tired and has so little self-control right now. “Greg, I should tell you ---”

She turns to face him, and he's so close, so close that she can't help it that she leans in toward him. And then his mouth is on hers, and she is kissing him, and it feels like fireworks and glitter and magic and coming home.

He pulls back, looking dazed. “Wow. I haven't felt like that since --”

She kisses him again, slower this time. She doesn't want to forget the way this feels, just in case it's the last time it ever happens, just in case he leaves and says he doesn't want to see her again. Her tongue slides against his; her hands cup the sides of his face as her body moves to straddle him. They fit together perfectly.

Rebecca knows, logically, she should be responsible, she should stop, she should at least say the words she has meant to say. And so she lets herself move away from him enough to look into his eyes, heavy lidded with desire. “Greg . . .”

“Shh” He says against her mouth. “Let’s not.” He shifts his mouth to kiss along her jawline, trailing kisses along her throat. “Talk.”

“Wait.” She sits up, suddenly cognizant of everything that is happening. She needs to talk. “Wait. We can’t not talk. I need to tell you something. I’ve been meaning to tell you something, and if I don’t tell you this, I--” She stalls when his tongue flicks along her ear. He knows all the ways to make her puddle in a mess of nothing, of wordless nothing. She presses a hand against his chest and removes herself from his body. He looks wounded by the distance.

“You don’t want this.” He says, looking hurt. “You don’t want me.”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Rebecca is appalled, “I want you so bad, Greg. That’s just it: I want you so badly I can’t think, I can’t breathe. I think about you all the time, I ---” She looks down and bites her lip before looking back up at him. He’s looking at her like he doesn’t know her, like he can’t believe anything she’s saying.

“Ever since the airport, ever since you told me -- “

“Since I told you I loved you.” he says flatly.

“You told me you love me and then you left,” her voice breaks a little. His eyes soften as his hands brush her hair again. “I know why you left, you were right to leave, we were -- we are? A shit show, but Greg . . . I didn’t get to say . . .”

“Rebecca, don’t, ” Greg is actively disentangling himself from her, shaking his head as he does. “Please don’t do this. You don’t know what you’re doing. This is stupid. This was stupid. I should not have come here. I let my feelings get in the way . . .”

She grabs his arm, twisting him around to face her. “You don’t get it, do you? No one has really loved me before.” The tears are falling again, and she brushes them away, angrily. “Ignore those. I’m so fucked up and broken.”

She knows he can’t stop himself when she’s crying, and his thumbs brush at her tears, his lips kiss them tenderly, so softly. “God, I love you,” He sighs against her face. “I try to tell myself to stop, I try to quit, I try everything. I move halfway across the country and I can’t stop thinking about you, I can’t ---”

She kisses him again then, because she’s weak, because she doesn’t know how else to say everything her heart wants to say, because she feels all the things he is saying, right here, right now. And he kisses her back, intensity matched with a poignant kind of sweetness they never had when he was ruining her all those months ago. She runs her hands through his hair, standing on her tiptoes, feeling every inch of him beneath her skin as she presses herself to him. Everything feels the same and different, and when he takes off her pyjama shirt, his mouth moving from her lips to her chin to her neck to her chest, she gasps from the contact, knowing she is lost.

Rebecca hooks her legs around his waist, looks into his eyes and kisses him back with abandon.

*

This is not ruining. In the confines of her bedroom, they take their time with the other-- each piece of clothing is a slow removal. She kisses, licks, and nips every inch of him, thrilled to hear his sighs and intakes of breath, the pleading in his voice when he says her name.

When he enters her she feels the world tilt on its access a little. And he makes love to her so sweetly, so slowly, holding eye contact, each action rhythmic and slow, that she may break into a million pieces.

“I love you,” she thinks when she cums, over and over and over. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” but she never once says the words out loud.

*

Rebecca wakes to a bedroom drenched in sunlight. She stretches her body, finding a familiar soreness she hasn't felt since . . . Well, since last time.

Rolling over sleepily, her arm falls on a bare, cold mattress.

Her eyes open as she springs up in the bed. “Greg?” She calls, her voice echoing in the room. She feels -- she knows -- she is alone. Moving out of the bed she grabs her pyjama top and pads to the kitchen, finding a sheet of paper on the kitchen table.

“I'm sorry,”

She can't keep reading the words, knowing what the rest will say. This isn't good for him, for them, for the impossible "us." She balls up the page and shoves it in the trash can along with the uneaten bag of tacos from the night before.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I admit that Rebecca does a fair amount of crying in this story, and that may seem a bit uncharacteristic of her, but I felt that she needs to let some stuff out, thus with the emotional-ness. It's a sign of her being really open and honest and not being some damsel in distress or being damaged. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading. I hope that you like this! Stay Tuned for part 3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains naughty language. It also contains a lot of sadness and angst. You've been warned.

Chapter Three 

 

A few weeks later, it happens to be both Christmas and Hanukkah. Rebecca hasn't heard from Greg, and she she's kept herself together enough not to email or text him -- even when she wants to, even when she needs to. Correction: when she thinks she needs to.

 

She’s back in therapy. Once a week. It's good for her, keeps her grounded, though she's not yet brought him up and she isn't sure how she will. The truth is how can she tell anyone she ruined the love of her life by being a total fuck up?

 

_ The love of her life? _

 

The thought gives her pause. She slurps up a tapioca ball and stares out at nothing. “Hey, Bunch.” A familiar voice intones, and she looks over, imagining that once again her imagination is playing tricks on her.

 

“Greg?” She sputters, coughing as a pearl goes down the wrong pipe. 

 

“Hey, hey. You okay?” He’s smirking, looking hotter than ever-- is that possible -- and she makes herself look away before she honestly answers that loaded question. 

 

“Sure.” She responds. “Sure.”

 

“I’m glad to see you, I ---” he starts, sinking into the seat next to her. “I'm sorry I didn't text or anything, finals were . . .” He grins and shrugs.

 

“Yeah, finals.” She didn't mean to sound so morose, but she was honestly bitter by his radio silence. “I’ve gotta go.”

 

“Becks,---” she cut him a less than warm glance at the use of her nickname.

 

“What? I told you I'd be back at Christmas and we could talk this whole thing out. You got my note right?”

 

“Your note?” She pauses, recalling the note he left on her kitchen table, the balled up paper in her hand . . .“Your apology for fucking me and leaving?”

 

“I don't think we just ---” Greg looks around and lowers his voice surreptitiously, “fucked, Rebecca -- “I had a 6 am flight and you looked so peaceful, and I just --- “

 

“You just what? You didn't want to wake me up and ruin anything with actually talking?” Her anger is white hot as she hisses out the words. 

 

“Rebecca, I--” he swallows, his Adam apple working. “I didn't want to leave. And I didn't want to not say anything, it just seemed like the best thing to do. Listen, should we maybe have this conversation somewhere else?” 

 

Several tables of nearby patrons shift their gaze as Rebecca glares at her once boyfriend, and recent lover. 

 

“Yeah,” she mutters, picking up her boba and moving away from the table. Thinking is hard, and if she's being honest ---

 

If she's being honest, she's in love with Greg Sarrano. Not some make believe fairy-tale love, but _real_ love. The kind that hurts sometimes, the kind that makes her not want to tell him how she feels because she doesn't want to derail all of his progress. 

 

After a few minutes of tense silence and walking, they end up at the park. The ducks quack in the pond. This place feels too loaded, too heavy with signs. Bad signs. Greg’s face says everything she is feeling, and she wonders why her feet on autopilot led her here anyway if it isn't just to ruin everything.

 

“I know I do a lot of apologizing,” she takes a heavy breath, “and I know the things I want to say to you I shouldn't say, but I really want to say them” her eyes fixate on a duck. Ducks are cute. She likes ducks. Ducks are better than the forlorn expression of doom on Greg’s face.

 

“When I first met you I was pretty messed up. Emotionally, mentally. I didn't see you for who you were.I didn't realize--- I didn't realize you were the only person I've ever met, like, ever, that I was really honest with. About everything. Who saw through my bullshit.”

 

“I'm not sure that's a good thing,” Greg says in a heavy voice and Rebecca shifts her eyes toward him. They lean over the railing of the bridge in the same place where she’d asked him, months ago, to try again with her-- for real this time. 

 

“I know why you didn't come that night. I mean, I get it, I do. I wouldn't have come either, I'm a mess.”

 

“I did come,” Greg says softly. “I came, and I saw you here, and I was so, so happy--- and I wanted to stay, I did. But I needed to walk away because I couldn't -- I wasn't ready ---”

 

“I know you weren’t ready. ” She turns to face him. “I am trying to respect what you told me at the airport. I am trying to be a good person because I know that you and I both need some distance right now. I've been working on myself, I really have --- and I know you've been working on yourself. But the problem is, I'm selfish and stupid, and all I do is think about you. All I do is think about how I want to . . .” Her voice trails off as her mind flashes to Thanksgiving, to the feeling of his hands on her, his mouth on hers. And she knows he is thinking about it too, knows it because of the way his knuckles turn white as they clutch the railing in the mid-morning sun, the way he holds his body so rigidly as she speaks.

 

“About how you want to what?” He barely can say the words, but he looks at her with such heat when he does finally say them that she finds herself almost whispering the respond.

 

“I want to touch you, Greg. I want to feel you beneath me, I want to kiss you, I want to,” his expression at her confession is pained, agonized. She stops herself. “This is what you meant when you said I was poison, isn't it? I'm awful, I'm terrible, I ruin everything.”

 

He moves so quickly that she can barely register as grabs her arms, moving them to his space and against the railing, pinning her against the wooden slats and against his thighs. His eyes are dark and intense as he looks down at her, the words she is about to say forgotten as she looks up at him, lips slightly parted. “I need you to stop talking, Rebecca.” He’s nearly hoarse from the effort. 

 

“But, Greg, you don't understand what I'm trying to tell you ---”

 

“I understand what you're telling me, that you're physically attracted to me, that we have great chemistry, that you feel bad for me, I get all that.” He dips his head to lean his forehead against hers. “God, do I get that.” 

 

“No, Greg.” She speaks with effort, when he's this close it's like talking through some kind of emotional soup of desire and lust and beyond all that, shining so true and clear and present is the one thing she hasn't said, the one thing she's so scared of . . .

 

“You're not attracted to me?” He looks dubious and presses himself into her, making her gasp from the contact. His erection is evident, her body hums with desire. 

 

“No,” she manages, “I mean yes, I'm attracted, I'm so --” 

 

She doesn't care if they are in public in a park on a bridge, he makes her feel delirious and crazy and needy with want. She runs her hands down his back, grabbing his hips, needing some control. He is the one to gasp now as she stares up at him, wearing a perfectly wanton expression. “It's so much more than that.”

 

His eyes narrow. Suddenly, everything shifts. “What do you mean? What's more than that?” He takes one, two steps backward. “I can't think when you're -- when you have -- why do you do that, Rebecca?”

 

“You're the one that grabbed me!” She retorts, feeling rejected and suddenly sad. 

 

“This is too much. It's always just too much with you, isn't it?” He asks, but seems to be asking himself. “And I'm the one that keeps doing it -- chasing after you like a goddamned puppy. Well you know what, I'm done with that. This” he gestures between them “this is over.”

 

Before she has a chance to respond, he stalks away, leaving Rebecca alone, on the bridge, again.

  
“I love you,” she says to no one and nothing as she stares blankly into the water.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end!

On New Year's Eve Valencia and Heather convince her she has to leave the house. “You can't keep yourself holed up in here forever,” Heather says, brushing on thick layers of black eyeliner before passing the vial to Rebecca.

“I could. I think I could.” Rebecca doesn't tell them what has made her so morose. She’d made up some story about having PMS and then needing time to think about life and resolutions and plans, and both women had bought it or at least had gone along with it. Heather arches an eyebrow in the mirror.

“No. No you can't. Let's get you dressed.”

Rebecca doesn’t protest when her friends put her in a too-tight black dress and let her leave the house with an overly-made up her face. She finds herself humming “Put Yourself First,” as they twist curls around her face, primping and priming her. “It’ll make you feel better,” Valencia said, knowingly. As if Valencia ever needed to feel better. She manages to look like a goddess even while shoving donuts in her mouth. The final product is something halfway between a high dollar call girl and an alternate-universe Rebecca Bunch, 80s party socialite.

“I left my purse at work. Mind if we pop in to get it? We can have a pre-club drink on me?” Heather wags her eyebrows suggestively and Rebecca shrugs. She honestly didn't care what they did -- she just wanted to get her mind off the black hole of emotion that was her and Greg Serrano.

Imagine her surprise that he is the first person they see when they open the door to Home Base.

“Rebecca, woah, that's the kind of stuff you should wear like, everyday.” Hector says approvingly as soon as he sees her, causing her to flush.

“Thanks, Hector,” she says, trying to hide her embarrassed pleasure. Josh doesn't stop talking to his new girlfriend who is probably judging Rebecca’s wayward eyebrows, and Whi-Jo and Darryl are rapt in conversation. Greg just stares, mouth slightly agape.

“Valencia, help me look?” Heather pulls the brunette with her behind the bar, and Rebecca shuffles to the furthest table away from Greg and his friends. She wants to be anywhere but there. _Anywhere._

“Hey.” Greg sets a glass of something in front of her and a bottle of water down, “mind if I join you?”

“Kind of?” She mutters, then looks up at him, her stomach doing those weird roller coaster flip flops that happen every time she looks into his eyes.

He sits anyway. “You look--” he gestures at her outfit, and she looks down at the too-tight dress, the lace accents of the black bra peeking at the top of the sweetheart neckline.

“Like a high dollar prostitute? Yeah, I know. I just went with it when they dressed me up.” She sips from the glass -- gin and tonic.

“Actually . . . Okay, I can see that, but I was going to say, pretty.”

“In a whorish way,” she bites back the sarcasm.

“In a pretty way.” He drinks a swig of water, clearing his throat, “I really want to apologize--”

“Can we stop it with the constant apologies? I feel like all we ever do is say “I'm sorry.” Let's just admit that we feel different things for the other person and move on so we can just stop this whole roller coaster of misery.” She takes an overly deep sip of her drink then meets his eyes, finding surprise and incredulity written on his face.

“Roller coaster of misery?” He echoes her words.”That's a pretty intense statement from the woman who ---”

“Who what? Who ruined her chance with the one guy she could have been happy with? With the one guy she ever really-- Nevermind. This is stupid, and you've already made it clear you don't want to hear what I have to say or how I feel.”

“The one guy you ever really what, Rebecca?” Greg leans in, his face serious, his voice sounding angry. “The one guy who could take your bullshit and was happy to come in second place all the time?”

“Why are you so mad at me? I didn’t do anything --” She bites her lip, “at least not this time. And you weren't second place!” Rebecca feels hot as anger courses through her body, white hot and purposeful. “I fell in love with you. I wanted to be with you, and you didn't want me. You walked away -- you left-- just like everyone does. You left. I love you, and you left” suddenly, somehow, she is yelling, and everyone is listening, the whole bar is still. Greg’s expression is one of shocked surprise.

This time, it’s Rebecca who is doing the leaving. “I have to get out of here,” she says, grabbing her purse and slamming her chair against the table.

No one stops her.

*

Halfway to the dugout, she kicks off the too-high heels, her feet finding purchase first in the soft green grass of the outfield and then the silty dirt of the playing field. She's not paying attention to where she is going; it's more that she is moving away from Home Base, from Greg, and her fractured, broken confession in front of everyone she knows.

Correction: knew. It’s not like Hector and Josh were her friends-- not really. And her declaration wasn’t going to be all that shocking to Valencia and Heather, the two had watched her be all moody and morose for weeks. Every time Heather brought up anything with a “Gr” sound, Rebecca had blanched, so she was pretty sure that it wouldn’t be a surprise.

But yet, in some ways, this whole thing--- all of these emotions-- were still a surprise to Rebecca. Everything in her life had told her “love” was way more romantic of an undertaking. It's not like one day she looked at Greg, and a choir of angels started singing. There wasn't one big, perfect moment. Her big romantic gestures were a flop. Everything romantic she’d done had only complicated matters, and besides, it's not like any of it mattered.

Not anymore.

Falling in love wasn't like getting hit by Cupid’s arrow. And loving someone -- really loving them -- was all the more complicated. In this case, it meant not being with him, it meant sacrificing the way she felt for the greater good; it meant realizing she was a colossally messed up person.

It meant seeing that if she truly loved Greg Serrano, she needed to let him exist in a world that didn’t include her.

And Rebecca had spent the past few months spiraling in a lot of ways, first not actualizing at all, and then finally realizing all the ways she was broken and stupid and okay, sometimes crazy . . .

“Rebecca!” Greg grabs her arm, spinning her around at home base. His face flushed, his eyes bright. “What did you say back there?”

“Greg, I don't want to do this anymore. Just let me go.”

“Did you just say that you loved me? As in you are in love with me?” Greg demands, his tone incredulous.

“Yes. Yes, I love you. I am in love with you. And I accept and understand that it is too late --”

“Too late?” He’s shaking his head, laughing. “Too late? Rebecca --” And then he’s kissing her, and she is kissing him back, because when it comes to physical proximity and Greg Serrano she finds she’s not good at rejecting anything. Her fingers curl into the soft hair at the nape of his neck as electricity shoots down her spine and into her toes from the contact of his lips on hers, his body against hers.

He pulls back and away, looking dazed. “Say it again.”

She locks eyes with him. The field is flooded with artificial light, enough that she can catch all the details in his face, the depth in his brown eyes with highlights of olive. “I love you.” She breathes the words, feeling suddenly shy in the confession.

“You love me?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I thought-- “

“Of course I love you,” Rebecca answers, “I assumed you knew that.”

Greg laughs, a deep, rich laugh that shows how much he didn’t know that she loved him. And she realizes in that moment she’d never said anything -- never done anything -- to let him know how she felt.

“Of course I didn’t know, Rebecca.” The mood turns from elated to serious as he dips his head to capture her lips again, and for one moment she revels in the perfection that is two people loving each other. Two imperfect people, sure, but two people that love each other, deeply, truly, maybe a bit madly-- but completely.

“Can we talk about what this means tomorrow?” Rebecca asks breathily, wanting to relish the perfect imperfectness that is Rebecca Bunch and Greg Serrano: broken people, sure, but when it came to feeling complete, she’d never felt more complete and whole than she did right there in his arms.

His eyes shine as he looks down at her, echoing the same thoughts and concerns that she knew she has in her heart, but wanting to hold on to this moment of perfect imperfectness for however long they could on the eve of a new year. “Sure,” he whispered, “we can wait as long as you want.”

She’s never been happier as they walk back across the outfield and into the warm lights of Home Base, hand in hand.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m toying with writing this from Greg’s perspective so you can get some of his angst and anger, but I’m not sure if I’ll do that. I know these two have miles to go before a happy ending, but I really needed 2016 to end on a joyful note for them, so here you go. Let me know if you'd like to see more of this story-- either from Greg's POV or what happens next. Thanks for all the kudos and comments!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Crazy Ex GF FF and my first time writing fic in a really long time, so I don't know if it's worth continuing this sordid tale of angsty woe, but I'm obsessed with these characters and can't get them out of my head, so thanks for indulging me.


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